90 DAYS
by cloudscandisappear
Summary: Blaine's world is a mess. His mother is dead. His brother escaped to a college. His father is an abusive homophobe. When Blaine is pushed to the edge, can he ever return? Does he want to return?  Warnings: Depression, Attempted Suicide,Cursing
1. Chapter 1

Fuck him.

He caused it and he ended it.

Arthur fucking Anderson. The great lawyer. The perfect father. The man whom the community respected. No one knew the man behind the facade.

But Blaine knew. Blaine knew all too well. Arthur fucking Anderson was a homophobe. Arthur fucking Anderson hit his kids. Arthur fucking Anderson pushed his son to the edge.

And then Arthur fucking Anderson couldn't even let his son do the one thing he most wanted; to die.

So Blaine was there. In a hospital. His arms restrained. His room stripped of everything but the TV mounted to the wall. The walls were clean and white. His hospital gown blue and loose. A glass of water next to his bed, tempting his thirst.

Blaine Anderson felt his stomach lurch again, still vulnerable from having been pumped. He recalled the pale blue pills he had forced down, and his stomach leaped again. He wouldn't do that again. He couldn't do that again.

As much as Blaine wanted to die, to escape all of the troubles of being an Anderson, there was no way that he would be able to try again. He couldn't stand pain or the sight of his own blood; it had been shed too many times. He couldn't bear to be found hanging from the ceiling and hearing the crunch of the neck snapping before he died. And now the pills failed; not leaving a single trace of what he had done. He strained his neck to examine his arms and legs and found nothing. No mark left from his attempted grand finale.

With no clock in the room, Blaine wondered what time it was. The room he was had no windows, for fear of someone jumping. He tried to return to sleep, but the pain, both mental and physical, was too much. He lay there crying.

Crying on and off for what seemed like days, Blaine could find no other solution to the emptiness he felt. The pit in his stomach grew larger. The sorrow stronger. He had heard people say that they were "all cried out," but that was not true in his case. Even though dehydrated, he could not stop.

"Crying again I see."

Blaine's head shot up. It was his father.

"That's exactly what's wrong with you. You're too soft." Blaine couldn't even muster an answer for his father's ignorance. He simply looked at the man through his tears.

"Grow up and act like a fucking man. You think real men try this shit?" Blaine stared at him blankly.

"Look, I have this covered. I told your headmaster that you fell and broke your leg. Just clean yourself up and no one will ever know about the crap you pulled. You'll come home, I'll hire an agency and we'll get this gay shit out of you. Even if I have to do it myself."

Blaine wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come out. His tongue was dry and the knot in his throat was growing larger. All of the hate and anger would not unfurl itself. His hands balled into fists. The restraints grew tighter.

But his father did not notice any of this. Why would he? Arthur fucking

Anderson was too busy trying to buy a perfect son. Blaine bit back the tears that were approaching, not wanting to cement his father's idea that he was weak because he was gay. He watched as his father sighed at the teen's silence. Arthur fucking Anderson shook his head, mumbled something about the trouble Blaine was causing, and left in search of the nurse to get discharge papers.

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><p>A couple of hours later Blaine rubbed the red striations left by the restraints. His wrists were raw from tight bounds that had grown tighter from his movement.<p>

The pain and fear that had been there when Blaine had decided to take the entire bottle of aspirin was still present. His heart pounding just as hard as before. The pain radiated from his chest into every conceivable part of his body. The fatigue was in every joint. The sorrow was felt in his toes. He couldn't go home. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't go back to the way he was living.

All he wanted to do was end this misery. It was too much to bear. This feeling affected every aspect of his life. His shoulders drooped when he walked. He kept his head down when he talked. He avoided phone calls and let his school work pile up on his desk. From the time Blaine was a small child, he had always been told that he would go to Harvard. Now it looked like he wouldn't be able to get into the local community college.

"So, Mr. Blaine Anderson, how are you feeling today?" The teen looked up at the doctor who had appeared while he was deep in thought. He paused for a moment, the lies at the tip of his tongue.

But then he did the thing that would cement his fate for the next three months.

He grabbed the knife off of the hospital tray that had been left there a little while ago. He held it to his wrist and shuddered.

"If you send me home, I will kill myself. "


	2. Chapter 2

Day One.

Blaine had been transferred to the John Ryder Institute; a mental health lockup on the other side of town. He remembered asking about it when he was young. He couldn't understand why the fence was so high or why the people looked so sickly. His father had told him that that was where they locked up the crazies.

He realized for the first time that he was crazy. Crazy. Pyscho. Cuckoo. Unhinged. Blaine was one of those people who was you would cross the street to avoid. The ones you laughed at in public and mocked with your friends. Society considered Blaine one step away from sticking his head into an oven.

After his desperate cry for help the day before, the doctor had jumped at Blaine, ready to wrestle the knife away. However, the teen had not the strength to put up a fight. He had simply dropped the knife beside him and let himself cry. The doctor looked at the boy curiously, made a few notes, and stepped out without another word.

The only pleasure that Blaine felt was from remembering the look his nhis fathers face when instead of discharge papers, he was passed transfer forms. Arthur fucking Anderson had thrown the papers back at the doctor and began shouting at the man. Somehow the doctor knew better and didn't tell Arthur fucking Anderson what Blaine had done. He simply said that Blaine needed more evaluation and treatment. He had given Blaine a referral for 90 days in a mental institution..

The lockup was a padded room with nothing in it. If Blaine wanted to go to the bathroom, he had to press a call button to be escorted. After his hospital suicide attempt, he had to spend three days in isolation and pass an evaluation to be moved to a regular room.

Blaine welcomed the silence. He could curl up in a ball and cry. He could lay spread eagle and think. He could talk to himself and not look crazy. He could kick and pound the walls in fury. Why wasn't be dead? Why did he have to live this way? Why would God give him this family of all families?

He hit the wall, every punch harder than the one before. At first it was directed towards his father. Why couldn't he accept his own son? Why did he think he was a disgrace? Why did he hit his kids? Why didn't he love his own family? Why did the lawyer even bother to have kids? How could he get away with this?

Then it turned to anger directed at himself. Why did Blaine have to be gay? Was it really something that he could change? Why didn't he try hard to appease his father? Could he have worked harder? Couldn't he have avoided his father's hits? Did he shame the Anderson name? Why did he let himself get this far? Why wasn't he strong enough?

Sweat poured from his forehead. He pushed his dark curls back and wiped his brow. How pathetic was it that he was punching a wall in a mental institution? Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he deserved to stay there.

Hours of sobbing later, Blaine finally reached the point where he had nothing left to give. Slowly he become empty. All of his fear and anger and disappointment had disappeared. It had turned to nothingness. He no longer felt anything.

Finally rational, Blaine took in his current state. He realised that he felt sticky. Not from the sweat from his panic, but from the clothes themselves The clothes he was given had left by a previous patient. A couple of plaid shirts and jeans. The shirts were frayed on the sleeves and the jeans were too short. Both articles had holes and stains. And they felt sticky. Like syrup. Blaine felt gross in the shirt, but kept it on, because he didn't have the energy to remove it. .

Of course his father couldn't be bothered to drop off clothes for his son to wear. That would require that a) he give a shit and b) that he be seen at the Ryder Institute. Blaine hoped that once he got of lockup, he could call his aunt and ask her to call his father. Maybe then Blaine would get some proper clothes.

With nothing but his clothes to worry about, Blaine stared blankly at the walls and sighed. There was no comfort to be found in this room. No cracks in the walls. No mistake in the paint. An even number Of ceiling tiles. The room was bare and perfect. It hid nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Wow a 100 views and only two people have reviewed? Is my writing that crappy? :-)

Speaking of which, love to my consistent reviews, Cassandra and boredandhomealone. Your comments were so nice! Hitting the refresh button on my email is worth it when I get a notification that you guys reviewed!

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><p>Day Three<p>

Being isolated meant that Blaine had no real sense of time. During lockup, Blaine slept a lot, and because of his situation, the nurses could not leave a tray of food in his room. He knows that at least a day had gone by, because he was brought breakfast and dinner once. He turned them down though, the thought of food sickening. All he craved was a simple piece of toast. No. Instead he was brought Jell-O, peas, and chicken. He shook his head at the nurse and she had brought the trays away.

When he heard his door open, he was surprised to see a doctor. He hadn't realized that it had already been three days. He had been siting Indian-style on the floor. The woman smiled at him and gave him a hand to grab. Weak from both his lack of food and his hospitalization, he was unsteady on his feet. The doctor grabbed Blaine's arm and guided out of the room.

They arrived at a small office. She pulled a seat close to her desk for Blaine and moved the chair behind her desk next to the teen's. She shut the door, glanced over his file, and sat down.

"Blaine Anderson, how are you feeling today?"

He looked at her. Was she stupid? How was he feeling? He was at a mental institution, so obviously he wasn't doing too well. However, his polite nature won out and he answered her.

"I guess fine."

"Fine, that's not very descriptive." She frowned at him. "Do you feel like you want to hurt yourself?"

He shook his head no.

"Do you want to hurt others?"

Again he shook his head.

"Can I give you a quick examination then?"

Blaine shook his head yes. Normally he would be embarrassed to be look at by a female doctor, but he was already in a mental institution. How much worse could it get?

"Your hands look bruised, but they look a few days old. No cuts on the wrists..." She went to remove his shirt. "Clean, no broken bones. Do you feel like you are healthy, other than what you came here for?"

Blaine shrugged. She asked him to remove his pants and he kicked them off. She examined his legs very quickly and asked him to put his clothes back on.

"Blaine, come sit down." She pointed towards her desk.

"I am going to take you off of suicide watch. I don't think that you're an immediate danger to yourself. However, you do have ninety days left here and we're going to work together on a treatment plan. What do you think?"

Blaine shrugged.

"From your records here, I think that medication would provide you some relief. Anyone in your position would have some anxiety, so we're going to start with some Klonopin. For your depression, I am going to prescribe Celexa. Are you okay with this? Will you take the medicine?"

Blaine nodded. The doctor looked visibly concerned.

"Well Blaine Anderson, I hope that you get the help you need. If you feel like you want to harm yourself, then get a nurse and come speak with me. I am going to meet with you once a week and you will have a therapist to meet with every day. Let's go talk with him."

Blaine walked with the woman, keeping his eyes to the blue-tiled floor. He didn't want to look at anyone. He was in the same situation as they, but he felt incredibly stupid wearing his previously worn clothes while walking with his psychiatrist.

The room Blaine entered was a lot friendlier than the room he had just been in. There was a full-sized couch. A recliner. A green carpet on the floor. Without even seeing his future bed, Blaine desperately wanted to spend his ninety days in this room. He wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch and sleep his life away.

"Hey Blaine, my name is Paul." The thirtyish-looking man held out his hand to shake his patient's. Blaine removed his hands from his sticky pockets and took the man's hand.

"Take whatever seat you want." Blaine took the couch and the man pulled a chair near it.

"What do you want to talk about Blaine?" The boy shrugged.

"I don't know, isn't that up to you? Isn't this part of my 'treatment'?"

"Not really. This is 'treatment,' as you call it, but it's really for your benefit. I'm not here to make you a certain person or act a certain way. I'm here kind of as a sounding bound."

"Oh."

"Well we have the three basics topics: school, family, and friends. Care to start there?"

"Well, you already know about my family..."

"Not really. I didn't really pick up your file yet. Besides, I want to know what you think."

"I have an older brother and a father."

"I take it your mother isn't a big part of your life?"

"Well she's dead, so I don't really think that that's an option for her." Of course the man had to ask about his mother. Her death had been following him for years. He was the kid whose mother had killed herself.

"I really am sorry for your loss." They sat in silence for a moment before the man asked, "Were you closer to your mother or your father?"

The answer is clear to Blaine, the name practically leaping out of his brain. But he is silent. He missed her. He missed his mother. He loved her more than he had ever loved anything or anyone. But she left him. And he hated to think that she had loved him less than he loved her.

His stomach jumped and he felt sick once again, and all he could think about was raisin toast.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you to my lovely reviewers: twin1, Gleek1906-Klaine4eva, Cassandra, and boredandhomealone :-)

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><p>Pathetic. He was pathetic. Wearing clothes that weren't his, sitting on sheets that belonged to the institution, and crying over someone that he had never seen before. Blaine Anderson was officially pathetic.<p>

The sting of the insult pained his chest. The pressure behind his eyes was pressing on his tear ducts. He could feel the heat in his face growing in intensity. As hard as he tried to control it, it was there. It has been there for weeks and had never left.

Hours before he had been brought to a room with two single beds. On one side the bed was messy and the shelves held clothing. It was as messy as it could be for a room that housed minimalist patients. They really didn't have the chance to accrue belongings.

He had sat down on the neat bed and sighed. He had twenty minutes until he had to go to art expression. His whole day was regulated. It felt as if he was back at the summer camp his father had sent him to. Except this time Blaine knew that this schedule was for his own benefit. Too much time to sit, too much time to think, was deadly. The poison was released when he sat too long. It coursed through his arteries and poked at his skin.

He put the clothes he had been given on his shelf and looked sadly at his meager collection of belongings. It was sad how all of his things fit on one shelf. He moved to look at what his roommate had on his shelves.

"What the fuck do you think that you are doing?"

Blaine turned to see a broad shouldered boy standing in the doorway. He had sandy blond hair and a scowl on his face. His clothes were shabby, with holes that would have been considered fashionable had they not been put there by the manufacturer, not naturally wear.

Blaine jumped back in response.

"Um… I was just looking…."

"Well that's my shit and you're too close." The sandy haired boy moved closer to Blaine. Even if he hadn't been taller than the Blaine, sandy hair was menacing.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean any harm." Blaine wrung his hands together. Really, it wasn't like he stole anything. He clearly was just looking.

"I don't know if they told you anything, but the last kid in here was so desperate that he attacked a guard to get out." Sandy-hair put his face to Blaine's. "You won't last a fucking week, so you might as well get your shit out of here." He grabbed Blaine's clothes off the shelf, and dropped them to the ground. He stepped on them with the shoes that were literally falling of his feet, and then kicked them beneath his bed.

"And don't even think about touching my fucking bed."

Sandy hair turned to leave and Blaine began crying. As much as he hated his father, he desperately wanted to go home. He was stuck in this sterile room with a crappy roommate, and he was going to be there for three months. And here he was being crying over some idiot. He was fucking pathetic. He deserved to be in this hell hole.

"It's time to go." Blaine looked at the door. One of the institution's guards was at the door.

"I'd really prefer to stay here." Blaine wiped his face with his hands, trying to hide his tears.

"Not really an option kid. Mandatory." Blaine sighed and followed the guard to his art expression class. He looked around at the room. Paint and easels were in one corner. Clay was on a table in the center of the room. Construction paper and markers were in another corner. Off to the side were bins of unknown origin and function.

Blaine sat with the clay. He had always liked playing with playdough as a kid. He worked it within his hands, feeling the contours of the tough material. He rolled it back and forth, pressing it between his fingers. This was stupid, wasn't it? It was meant to distract him, but he was still alone in his thoughts. He ripped the clay into shreds, picking at it into hundreds of pieces. The smallest pieces possible.

What was this supposed to do for him? How was this supposed to be healing? How could they tell him that this would help him, when they didn't even know him.

The clay, after being kneaded in his hand softened. The cool, tough exterior was no more. It was warm within his hands. He rolled it into long, windy snakes, thin and fragile. As they green thinner, they cracked and he started again. He wished life was this easy.

He wished that school was like this. So easy. So mindless. School wasn't hard persay, but it required so much energy. It took so much effort to crawl out of his warm bed in the morning. So much effort, that sometimes he didn't even bother. Sometimes his friends called him, but more often than not they didn't. His dad didn't give a fuck. His mom was God-knows-where. His brother was AHWOL. No one wanted to be an Anderson. No one wanted this toxicity coursing through their veins.

Blaine had always been a good student, and the fact that his teachers were giving him so many breaks just reinforced the idea that Blaine didn't need to try. He didn't need to make an effort, because he could just turn that assignment in next week. He could copy off another student. He could float by, because he was given every chance. And he was too tired to care that he was abusing it.

Suddenly Blaine was shocked out of his little world of clay and apathy. A hand was on his shoulder.

"It's Blaine, right?" The boy looked up at the freckle faced girl sitting next to him.

Blaine nodded.

"My name is Pepper, I'm the recreational manager here. I'm glad you're here." She held out her hand. Blaine looked at it for a moment, as if he didn't know what to do. Then slowly he extended his arm.


End file.
